


spar with the boogieman, scar from the boogieman

by flammivomous (orphan_account), Inche Worm (flammivomous)



Category: Strange Men (Video Games), The Boogie Man (Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Violence, Drugs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Natalie Small is a made-up name for his wife btw, OKOKOK I KNOW IT SAYS STEVIE/BRENDON BUT THEYRE SEPARATED I SWEAR, Other, Physical Abuse, VERY SEPARATED AND IT WAS ONE-SIDE AND IN THE PAST, au where stevie lives but still underwent that terrible tutorial, hi im sorry, i treasure stevie ok and he deserves better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/flammivomous, https://archiveofourown.org/users/flammivomous/pseuds/Inche%20Worm
Summary: “‘Turn on the lights.’ Repeat. ‘Turn on the lights.’That’s the way, Stevie! You’re a real great tour guide! Now keep repeating… you have to finish your job if you wanna go back to your wife in Connecticut!"Sometimes, you'll meet people that will ruin your life. Whether it is fair or unfair, the Smalls will figure it out for themselves.Trigger Warnings at the beginning notes of every chapter.





	1. It's... Warm...

**Author's Note:**

> This series is basically an AU wherein Stevie Small survives rather than dies in the RPG video game, The Boogie Man, created by Uri as the third installment of the Strange Men Series. I recommend that you play the games yourselves, but if not, ManlyBadassHero on YouTube has Lets Play'd all of Uri's games, including the Strange Men Series. He includes all endings in his Lets Plays as well, which is pretty awesome, so check him out!
> 
> Trigger Warning: Implied Non-Con, Implied Torture, Drugs (GHB)

There is a lukewarmness coursing through his veins that numbs the painful puncture in his arm. His head lolls back and forth, rolling around his shoulders before being shoved forward by an unforeseen hand behind his head. Stevie groans as the needle in his arm is shoved deeper under his skin before being harshly yanked out. The sharp pain quietly diminishes as whatever is in his system starts its first wave of effects, and Stevie feels… weak. Tight. Choked. His skin feels hot, but there is no sweat. His head feels hazy, stuffed, just like the room he’s in. His shirt collar is much too tight... It doesn’t take long for him to start sweating.

“Well, well~ You’ve slept for a long time, haven’t you?” purrs a… recognizable voice. It hides behind a rough, deep tone, and, although he knows exactly who he’s listening to, Stevie feels uneasy. The hand behind his head digs into and tightly grips his hair, and Stevie lets out another whine when Brendon harshly tugs his head back.

“Brennn... Brenndonn...?”

There is a slur in his voice. Stevie can barely form his words and steady his lips. Briefly, he thinks about what the fuck is coursing inside of him that could make him feel so… limp. Disoriented. He tries to lift an arm, but finds that they are tied down to the chair he’s in. He catches a glimpse of the room. Dark in the corners, aside from the light shining directly above him. The only way out– the door –is in front of him. But… a figure blocks his sight of the door.

“Aren’t you a detective? How’d you know it was me, Steviebuddy?” The figure stands before him, features hidden behind a paper bag, but the mask is shed, and Brendon reveals himself before Stevie.

“Breeh... Brenn... Whaare you...” There is next-to-no steadiness in his voice. Brendon presses a finger against his lips, shushing Stevie when he tries to protest.

“Don’t worry, Stevie,” Brendon croons as he slides his finger down Stevie’s neck. “You’re in safe hands."

Stevie starts to shake when he realizes that he can’t move. Not because he’s tied down, no, but because whatever is coursing through his veins is _forcing_ his muscles to _relax_ , to _weaken_. His body simply feels much too warm than natural, and, in his ears, there is an awful ringing and heart-pounding at once.

“Brennn... do... lemmeee... goooo...” The hand grasping his hair gets tighter until Stevie whimpers at the feeling of hair tearing from the back of his neck. Brendon held on so _tightly_ …!

"Thisss... isnn' funnn... eeeee-...!"

"Let you go?” Stevie’s shoulders jerk when Brendon lets out a painfully high laugh. The ringing in his head intensifies, and Stevie closes his eyes, praying that this is a dream. That the hand ripping his hair is a prank. That the knife sliding out from Brendon’s sleeve is a joke. That someone will come save him. Brendon leans down, his mouth hovering right next to Stevie’s ear. Brendon’s breath wafts by his nose, and if he weren’t drugged, he would’ve vomited at the acrid iron odor in Brendon’s breath accompanied by a sickening red dripping down Brendon's chin onto Stevie's shoulder. The smell urges bile to climb up his throat.

“I can’t very well do that, can I, sweetie? You’re the tutorial, after all.” When Brendon mutters 'sweetie' in Stevie’s ear, an audible smirk curling up the edges of Brendon’s lips, Stevie feels himself lose it. Being treated as if he were a child... As if he were incapable... Inferior. Submissive. The authoritative growl in Brendon’s voice sends a new shudder up Stevie’s spine. Although he’s heard the tone before, he’s never heard it like this. Used like this. Used in this context.

Not thinking twice about consequences, Stevie slams his temple into Brendon’s forehead in a futile act of resilience. The attack catches Brendon by surprise, and the hand gripping Stevie’s hair releases as the blond man stumbles back, stunned. With as much energy as he could muster, Stevie opens his mouth, inhales as much air as possible, and screams—

—… but only a quiet squeak comes out. The full effects of the drug he was given now hits him; he could feel whatever minor control he had over his muscles slacken, then disappear completely. He slumps forward in his chair, and if it weren’t for the cuffs chaining him to the armrests and the legs, Stevie would’ve fallen onto the floor.

“Oh… you thought you could escape?” Brendon laughs softly, and, as he leans Stevie back into the chair, he licks his lips. Stevie only stares at him helplessly, not even able to speak. His vocal cords have slackened completely, but Brendon knows exactly what Stevie could be thinking. Stevie regrets their friendship now, regrets it more than ever before. He should've listened to Natalie, should've listened to the signs... but he fell right into Brendon's fucking grasps.

“Stevie, I’m afraid there’s no salvation for you tonight. Escape? Not a chance! You play too important a role…” Stevie glances around the room again, frantically searching for another door, another window, another way out. That’s when he saw it. Blood on the floor, and lots of it. Smeared by the edges, but not _pooling_. He spots a broom with a bloodied brush resting against the corner of the room, and, again, bile pools at the back of his throat.

“‘Help! Somebody help me! Keith! David! Help me! Somebody help!’ Is that what you want to say?” Brendon asks, amused, and behind him, Stevie feels a strange carving sensation at the space between his shoulder blades. A sudden pressure lands on his thigh, and Stevie’s eyes widen as much as possible when Brendon presses a thumb closer to the inner part of Stevie’s thigh. ‘Brendon, stop! Stop it! Please!’ he tries to mouth in vain, but his jaw is locked; partially from joint lock, but also from... fear of the bloody figure before him. A fear towards a friend that he's only felt once before. The ringing in his head intensifies until the only thing he can do is stare blankly af Brendon.

The bad part is that Brendon stares at Stevie, daring him to try and stop him. And the worst part is… he can’t.

“The night has only started, darling,” Brendon chuckles. The carving sensation in Stevie’s back doesn’t stop. Nor does Brendon’s hand. Sweat forms like bullets on Stevie’s skin, and, meekly, he clenches and unclenches his fists to try and bring back some form of control.

“By the way, no need to call me Brendon now... I am the Boogie Man."

 

... It’s… warm…


	2. Taking Your Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Keith is taking his goddamn time, isn't he? Let's put on a show before he gets here. Who's the audience? Why, just you and me, of course..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh, this chapter sucks, imo. I’ve been trying to get into the writing mood for so long and i’m kind of disappointed, bur take it. Knives and Daggers will probably be updated soon, but don't count on it.
> 
> Trigger warnings: Torture, sensitive material, implied sexual assault, emeto, basic stuff basic stuff, overall gorey kidnapping-almost-death description.

The sound of dripping blood doesn’t catch in his ears. It should’ve been there because he can feel liquid dribble down his arm. The remnant feeling of syringes lazily stuck in the crook of his elbow lingers, but it doesn’t matter. At least, not at the moment. What matters is the audio that is playing in his ear. That harsh, rough voice plays. In the back of his head, he thinks to reply, but his lips are cracked, and his throat is dry. Instead, he listens to the voice. It commands him to repeat a phrase that has long been drilled into his head.

“‘Turn on the lights.’ Repeat that, Stevie. Perhaps you’ll get to see Natalie again if you do.”

“T… Turrr…” His mouth is pooling with liquid.

“Awww, can’t talk too well, can you? It’s alright. Take your time.” The voice lets out a low, rumbly laugh. “I know Keith is.”

He first has to cough up the liquid bubbling at the back of his mouth. It’s… irony. Warm. The surface of the blood is cold and congealed, and, at last, the bile that rests at the bottom of his esophagus explodes out. He chokes out blackened and red blood, which strew out of his mouth—and revoltingly, his nose—onto the floor and down his shirt. It’s in this moment that he now feels the sting of long-removed syringes in his arm. And the damage done to his back.

Stevie lets out a pained, gargled scream as he is hit with the worst pain he has ever experienced.

As he screams, the air biting the inside of his mouth and coarsening his throat, his stomach empties the same way his voice does. The contents of dinner are regurgitated, spilling into his lap and trickling down his chin until his stomach feels limp and empty. And from there on, he can only choke up so much more blood and stomach acid. His throat is indefinitely raw now, and his stomach starts to ache from the rapid emptying.

Eventually, his voice goes hoarse, and he stops vocalizing how god-awful he feels. How in pain he is. How much his nostrils burn from snorting up blood and bile. How much the cold air freezes his split-open back. How much… god… he only wants someone to embrace him. To be with him in his final moments, to kiss him as he leaves the earth. But there’s only a cold room, and a chair he is tied to, and his beloved Br… The Boogie Man’s harsh voice. The only thing he can do is endure and…

“All done yet?”

“I know how hard that was, Stevie,” the low voice crooned, and he coughed, bowing his head, still retching at the congeal blood and solid bile sticking to the roof of his mouth. “But, trust me, it’ll only get easier from this point on."

His heartbeat has never been louder in his ears. Thankfully, there’s no ringing in his head. Only an apathetic haziness and a faint thought here and there that Stevie acknowledges. An occasional ‘please help’ followed by an ‘I’m going to die.’

“Remember what I said earlier?” Faintly. Stevie can remember bits and pieces of twenty minutes earlier, but when he tries to think any deeper… he’d rather not. Instead, he tries to pretend his back isn’t split open, and he isn’t bleeding out, and he isn't in pain. “‘Turn on the lights.’ Aren’t you supposed to say that for me, Stevie?”

There is an audible disappointment in the Boogie Man’s tone, and as much as he himself is in pain, Stevie can’t help but at least adhere to Boogie Man’s command.

“Don’t you wanna see Natalie again?”

… Yes. Yes, he does.

“Ttuu…” The vibration of his vocal cords intensifies the dryness in his throat. It doesn’t deter him from his aim, but it does flare up the pain his throat is causing. There’s nothing but encouragement on Boogie’s side of the tape.

“Good, Stevie! You're getting there! You're doing so well!”

His voice sounds hoarse when he can finally speak.

“Tuuuurnn… ooon th… eee… liii… s… On… Ights.”

After uttering the last word, talking gets a bit easier, although he isn’t spared from the pain of it. But he manages to ignore the burning in his throat.

“Good! Good… you’re doing great. Just keep repeating that, buddy, and Natalie will come for you soon.”

Stevie would nod in reply, but his thought process feels like it’s shutting down. The one nod that he does attempt tires him out, and his whole body seems to droop forward in the chair. The ropes binding his torso to the chair kept him upright, but even then, it was clear that he has given up escape. There was no energy, no life in his body. An occasional burst of will would routinely come by:

“Turn… on… the lights… Turn on… the lights… Turn on the… lights…”

“Anytime now, huh?” the Boogie Man chuckles, his voice prominent in the earjacks in Stevie’s ears.. “He suuuure is taking his time. Why don’t we have a conversation while dear ole Keith keeps this u–”

The Boogie Man doesn’t get to finish his sentence. There’s a sound, a noise; slowly, a bit of light pours into the room, and the door squeaks as a figure opens it.

Boogie doesn’t need to command so; Stevie hasn’t been listening to him, after all. He has been too busy repeating.

“Turn on… the lights… turn on the lights…”

“... Stevie?”

_Yes! ___

____

“Is that you?”

____

_Yes! _a thought screams in Stevie’s head, and he struggles to reply. Struggles to give Keith more of a reason to hurry because now, his system is feeling alive and active, and he feels himself getting weaker now as more cool liquid trickles down his arm; feels himself remember what happened twenty minutes ago, feels himself go into a trance as he leaves the current moment and goes back. Anything to force out of the godforsaken “turn on the lights” brainwash.__

______ _ _

But when he does remember, his stomach gets warm, and his legs melt, and his mouth drops open, and there are hands on him, and they are touching him, and he can’t breathe, and his tongue is in mine, and—

______ _ _

The weak light bulb above flickers to life, and although he can’t move or bear to even lift his head, Stevie knows Keith is here to see him in this miserable fucking state.

______ _ _

Step after step after step; there is no hesitation in Keith’s movement, but Stevie can care less. _It's too late for me now _, he thinks, his body already below normal core temperature. For some reason, he’s okay when Keith, in lieu of checking his vitals, or panicking, or whatnot, reaches for the audio player instead. As if Stevie hasn't been waiting long enough.__

________ _ _ _ _

It doesn’t really matter what takes him so long, though. It’s too cold, and, even with the coat draped over his back, stinging and setting off pain receptors as pressure is applied to the back of his neck, he nods off, no longer chanting.

________ _ _ _ _

“... It’s… cold…”

________ _ _ _ _


End file.
